


Mess Me Up

by ix_tab



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Stream of Consciousness, mentions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-11-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ix_tab/pseuds/ix_tab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'll dance and drink and scream and kill, because you're the 8est there is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mess Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> Something that I wanted to write, a collection of thoughts from Vriska's point of view. She's not a reliable narrator, obviously, her thoughts do not echo my opinions of the other characters, or even of herself. I have a really complicated love of Vriska, and I wanted to express that.

You have all the luck, all of it. Every single drop. You gobble it up, you’re gonna have it all and not give a single piece to those losers.

 

You tell yourself you don’t care and even when its not true, it helps.

 

What remains of the hemospectrum makes you laugh. The only high bloods left are monsters like you and Pyrope, idiots like Peixes and Makara, and idiotic monsters like Zahhak and Ampora. These were your cohort? This bunch of fools and perverts and vicious grins and red blank eyes?

 

Your lowbloods, all of them are smart and generous and beautiful and they make you sick. They don’t revere you, they don’t curtsey or cower. They don’t and most of the time you don’t want them to, no matter what endless blood hierarchy literature told you.

 

Well, you’d like it if they didn’t hate you. You want them to see everything about you, but the good parts, not the parts you keep folded up and locked away. None of them look at you right anymore, though. They see crumpled bodies, limp legs, sightless stares and that is all you are to them.

 

You still want to crush Tavros, make him dirty and then you can love him without this gross feeling that he is better then you. He’s a worse troll then anyone, he won’t fight unless it’s for someone else, he won’t hit back. He’s not better then you, can’t be better then you. Maybe if he pitied you, maybe if he hated you, you could change it.

 

It never works, and you’ve given up trying. You just hurt him again and again, and he looks at you with his big eyes and you want to eat him up, you want him to be a challenge you want and you want and it never gets resolved.

  
No one is better then you. Everything is better then you. You’ll cheat and pillage and loot and you’ll be the best fucking troll in two universes, and nothing ever feels quite enough.

 

Sometimes you dream about the blood of the meals you brought your lusus. You struggle through rivers of dull reds, browns and yellows, thin streams of greens, and the occasional splash of brilliant blue. Blue like you. You love killing the blues and the browns, they go wonderfully together. Spidermom seems to like the blues a lot, too. Like mother like daughter, you would both pull apart the world starting with yourselves if you could.

 

What would Mindfang think about her descendant, with all her irons in the fires, with the blood of hundreds on her claws, with her heart broken and patched poorly? You want her to be envious. You want her to acknowledge you. You want her to try to rip apart your mind, and then you’d just stab and rend and tear at her until she fell, spilling your blood.

 

You’d hold her, victorious and triumphant, killing your idol, killing yourself and you’d scream wild and strong and it would be terrible.

 

You want to break everything, you want to be broken, you yearn to be made whole again, and it will never happen. You’ll pull all the wires, catch them in your web, watch them dance, and then when they come to hang you with their marionette strings you’ll scream and swear and laugh and kill as many as you can.


End file.
